


rage

by deanssammy (babylxxrry)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anger, Blood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 02:25:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14728197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylxxrry/pseuds/deanssammy
Summary: It’s an indescribable kind of rage that fills Sam. He doesn’t even know why he’s so fucking pissed, but he is and he wants to kill someone or something or break something or throw something or scream or cry or break someone’s fingers one by one to watch their face contort in agony. But at the same time, he’s also so tempted to sit down and die.[a study in rage]





	rage

**Author's Note:**

> i initially wrote this as therapy for myself and deleted it for personal reasons. i'm in some kind of mood again tonight so here it is again. please read the trigger warnings and if any of it could trigger you, please be safe.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: fairly graphic self harm and blood, casual discussion of suicide

It’s an indescribable kind of rage that fills Sam. He doesn’t even know why he’s so fucking pissed, but he is and he wants to kill someone or something or break something or throw something or scream or cry or break someone’s fingers one by one to watch their face contort in agony. But at the same time, he’s also so tempted to sit down and die. 

It would be so easy to just.

Take a gun.

And blow his own brains out. Or maybe up through his mouth. Anything.

But he refuses to go there. He’s not going there. Not right now. He _will not fucking go there_. Not if he has anything to say about it right now.

So he paces his room, itching for _something_ to do with his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists until harsh crescents mark his palms and his fingertips are stained red with his own blood. He claws at his throat, marks his neck up with wild scratches and bloody trails that sting when he turns his head. He turns his head. Makes the scratches sting and sting until the nerves under his skin give out and stop feeling. He picks at the skin over his collarbones, picks and picks and picks until blood droplets dot his skin and he’s still so, so angry. He doesn’t know why but this isn’t helping so he picks more, pulls and pinches and rips at his arms, his neck, his hands until he’s dizzy with the pain.

It’s not even like he wants to hurt himself. It’s not even like he’s really all that aware that he’s hurting himself. He’s not, not really. Not in the moment. He’s just so pissed that he doesn’t know what to do with himself and so it comes out in the form of inflicting harm upon himself, like it’s going to do anything productive for him at all.

Sam’s done his research. He knows what people say to do. Rip a piece of paper. Scream. Ice cubes. Write. Draw. Anything besides this. But he _can’t_. Because he’s mad. And because he doesn’t know what else to do. Because he can’t get it out any other way. Dean used to let Sam use him as a punching bag back when Sam was young and he couldn’t actually hurt Dean. Now? That’s not a possibility because Sam could kill Dean with his bare hands, should he want to. And he doesn’t. Not really. Kill himself, maybe, but not Dean. Not right now.

God. Sam’s fucking tired of this, tired of battling himself like this. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to battle himself. He wants to rip something up that’s more than just a measly sheet of paper. He wants to hack something up without regard for neatness or subtlety or efficiency. He wants to get this goddamn anger out somehow without hurting himself any more than he already has because Dean’s going to notice, and even if he doesn’t say anything, Sam knows Dean’s keeping an eye on his habits.

He’s always been a good big brother like that. Sam hates it sometimes. Times like this, when he just wants to break himself into shreds of flesh and shards of bone so he can escape the rage swirling in his stomach, in his chest. So he can be free from himself and his own mind. He feels like it’s crawling through each bloody vein, each microscopic scratch and wound he’s inflicted on himself. Maybe it’ll come out of him through each bloody tear, each dripping cut that’s not supposed to be there.

Just maybe.

“Sammy?” Dean calls through the door, and Sam doesn’t respond.

“Sam, I know you’re in there and I know you’re beating yourself up. Literally,” Dean says, and Sam clenches his fists, driving his nails deeper into the welts on his palms.

“Leave me alone.”

“No, Sam. Open the door.”

“Leave me alone, Dean,” Sam grits.

“No. I know the door’s unlocked, Sam. I could come in whenever. But I’m giving you a choice. Are you going to let me in or are you not?”

“Stop, Dean.”

“Okay,” Dean says, but there are no footsteps going to move away from the door. Sam _knows_ what Dean’s doing. He’s doing the stupid psychological bullshit tricks he learned on a neuroscience kick a few years ago.

“If you’re going to be that way, I’ll give you my decision. You can come in, but I’m not letting you in. And if you so much as comment on what you see, I _will_ break your neck without a second thought.”

Dean pushes the door open, quirking an eyebrow at Sam’s state.

“Don’t. Say. Anything.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Dean says lightly, though Sam can see the concern behind his eyes. “Let’s get you patched up.”

Sam goes with him to his room. The ball of anger in his stomach flares up the moment Dean starts cleaning the blood off, but Sam tamps it down for the moment. He imagines leaving it behind in the other room. It starts to calm down.

Dean works with a silent, practiced efficiency. He cleans, disinfects, bandages if needed. Moves on to the next bloody gash.

Sam breathes.

 

 

-fin.   



End file.
